


simmer

by readtheroomfucko



Series: petals for armour [2]
Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, canon-compliant jen is not a great person, jesus forgive me for writing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26805052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtheroomfucko/pseuds/readtheroomfucko
Summary: picks up after paint it aluminum but works as a standalone. it’s sexually charged angst, idk what to tell you.
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Series: petals for armour [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954876
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Judy learns to demarcate the edges of cruelty through Jen. It’s not cruel, what Jen does to her. It feels cruel sometimes and then it’s something else entirely; Jen coming home with take-out and a new bottle of wine, Jen stroking her hair while she chokes back tears the morning her mom calls asking for money again. _Jen._

Jen knows how Judy feels about her (she doesn’t have to guess anymore, at least) but nothing changes. Judy had expected her to keep her distance and quickly realizes that whatever standard issue operational manual she’s been using to navigate life must have been thrown out with Jen’s junk mail. Jen stays as close as ever and it feels awfully callous to disregard the shift, but the ground beneath them is almost stable. It’s _almost_ okay, as if it never happened, and Judy thinks she’s almost fine.

Then Jen storms through the front door, her jaw set in a hard line, and Judy’s nails dig into her palm instinctually. It’s like electricity in the air, the kind of anger that seeps out and fills a room, and Judy imagines it as a gradient: trapped energy ratcheting up and slipping through the cracks. 

She sucks in a breath, mutters, “Hi, Jen,” and she can taste the charge on her tongue. Judy’s never liked being around Jen when she’s angry.

Jen lets out a sigh in response and makes her way into the kitchen, grabbing the half-empty wine bottle off of the counter and pouring herself a glass. 

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” she groans, shushing Judy with a pointed glance before she has a chance to respond. “No, seriously. This is the second guy this week who seemed alright, you know. Seemed interested and then,” she throws up her hands in exasperation, “What the fuck?”

“Jen,” Judy starts carefully, “I’m not sure I understand. Did things go badly with… uh, Brad?”

Jen scoffs, “Yeah, Brad, Kevin, and… I’m almost fifty years old for fuck sake. I mean, what the fuck am I doing?”

Judy’s not sure she knows how to read Jen anymore (or if she ever could to start with) because she doesn’t seem angry when she really thinks about it. Hurt, maybe. Confused. 

Probably drunk, but Judy doesn’t like thinking about that. Jen traded her nightly glass of wine for four or five after the accident, a tangible reminder of the past, and Judy doesn’t think she has any right to question it. Not much of Jen’s current mental state makes sense, but she figures it’s in Jen’s nature to _resist_ , the idea of Jen in therapy despite the necessity of it as ridiculous as a lion in a petting zoo.

“I don’t know,” Judy replies honestly, albeit weakly.

Jen leans back against the counter, looking at her intently. 

“I don’t understand why you…” she trails off, shaking her head. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

When Jen finishes her wine and makes her way up the stairs, she turns back to Judy with a brow arched expectantly. Judy trails behind. It’s another thing she doesn’t question.

She returns from the on-suite in an oversized tee and Judy forces herself to look away, to study a loose thread on Jen’s expensive sheets, but not before Jen follows her gaze to her own thighs and looks up with a tight smile. _Busted… again._

Jen looks defeated somehow, eerily unresponsive, and Judy remembers her childhood fear of mind readers; sitting in classrooms thinking _apple, dog, pleasedontreadmymind,_ on the off-chance that her teacher was superhuman. She’s not sure she wants to know what goes on inside of Jen’s head. 

“Ted had pictures of me,” Jen speaks softly, “Before the surgery. I caught him looking at them once on his phone and I tried,” she sucks in a sharp breath, “you know, I fucking _tried,_ and he just told me he was too tired.”

Judy doesn’t know how to react, how to convey the fury that bubbles inside of her when she’s faced with Jen’s self-loathing, so she just squeezes her hand and says, “You’re so beautiful. You know that, right?” 

There’s an ache in her chest when the words leave her mouth. It doesn’t mean anything to Jen when she’s the one saying it. 

“You should really be careful with your Amazon orders,” Jen remarks, apropos of nothing. 

“Excuse me?”

“Henry likes opening packages when they come to the door,” she explains, “I told him it was a back massager.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Judy chokes out, her cheeks heating up, “Did he believe you?”

Jen doesn’t respond, but her eyes lock onto Judy’s and there’s something uncharacteristically timid in the way she purses her lips. 

“Do you ever think about me?”

Judy’s eyes widen, her body suddenly on high-alert. She steels herself and lets out an awkward chuckle.

“What?”

Jen reaches out tentatively and takes the string of Judy’s robe in her hand, tugging until it unfastens and she’s forced to hold it together with a tight fist, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Jen,” she rasps, surprised at how frail the warning sounds in her own ears.

Jen’s expression is stoic under the soft light that seeps in through the open window and when Judy sees a tear drip down her cheek, she’s sure she imagined it. 

“Tell me,” she whispers, placing a hand over Judy’s where it’s fisting the silk of her robe. 

Judy swallows hard and closes her eyes, letting her hand relax and flinching when she feels the cold breeze hit her skin. 

“Yes,” she breathes, imagining the confession as smoke, sucking it back in and letting the tar stick to the walls of her lungs, “Sometimes.”

“What do I do?” Jen asks, a hint of curiosity coming through, “When you think about it, I mean.”

Judy opens her eyes slowly, still unable to look at Jen, afraid of what she might find in her expression. She sits up on her knees and stares at them, wondering idly if they’ve always looked so strange. Her body feels alien in a way she can’t quite understand. 

“Um, you kiss me. You grab my waist and then,” she stammers, bringing two fingers to the space between her neck and collarbone, “you kiss me here and… fuck, Jen. I can’t do this.”

Judy looks up finally, searching for some indication of what Jen wants from her in her eyes, finding only an indifferent intensity that seems contradictory. 

“Tell me you want me.”

Judy feels desire and humiliation coil deep in her stomach. She shakes her head frantically, pulling her robe closed as if the action could salvage the last of her dignity. 

“Please,” Jen says and there’s a softness to it; a departure from the practiced nonchalance that coaxes Judy into letting the silk fall open once again. 

“I want you,” Judy sighs. She reaches for the hem of Jen’s soft cotton shirt and pauses, waiting for a reaction to gauge whether she’s crossed a line. Jen just stares ahead, the muscles of her abdomen tensing as Judy carefully teases it up. She stops when the hem reaches the top of her breasts and Jen’s breath hitches. 

_I love you,_ she thinks.

“I want you so badly, Jen,” she says breathlessly. It’s only half of the truth and more than she ever anticipated sharing.

Jen grabs her waist, her thumb digging into the sharp edge of a hip bone, and Judy squeezes her thighs together, biting back a moan. It feels like Jen’s touch should leave a mark, like she could brand the impression of her skin into Judy’s just by having touched it. Then Jen’s staring at her hand, her lips parting slightly, and she’s pulling away, adjusting her shirt and tugging the duvet up around her shoulders. 

Judy feels something like shame prickling at the corners of her eyes as Jen runs her fingers through her hair and lays her head on the pillow. Her hip tingles but it’s still the same skin, white in the moonlight.

“Thank you,” Jen replies quietly, closing her eyes and turning away. 

Judy ties her robe and crawls under the covers next to her, listening to each slow breath as Jen falls asleep. When Judy’s eyes shut, she remembers the scene that plays out in her head when she’s alone; Jen’s lips on hers, on her neck, strong hands anchoring her in place. This time, when she pulls back for air, Jen looks right through her:

_Thank you._


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, Jen takes Judy out for drinks at her favourite bar. Judy’s not sure if it’s out of guilt or a genuine desire to spend time with her, but it feels the same. She doesn’t have time to unpack that. 

There’s a man watching her from the bar as she dances, raking his eyes up her body, and she feels like she’s twenty-five again. It’s different now; she knows she can tell him off if she really needs to, but the discomfort lingers. 

She watches as he makes his way over to her and Jen, two drinks in hand, and feels herself stiffen. Unwanted attention has always made her want to disappear. It feels like a loss of control, like her body working against her. She used to dream of being invisible. Now she just wishes she was more like Jen; fiery eyes and the threat of quick fists. _Scary._

For a moment, she imagines Jen’s fist coming down hard against his face and her head spins, her legs wobbling underneath her. Jen catches her, holding her tight against her chest, and she resents the sense of safety that washes over her when Jen holds her upright. 

“Jesus,” Jen huffs, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she manages, but now Crowded House is blasting through bar speakers and all she can smell is Jen’s perfume. All she can see is Jen with blood on her hands. 

_Hey now, hey now. Don’t dream it’s over._

“I used to love this song,” she points out, searching for a safe topic to broach. 

Jen hums, smiling to herself, “I lost my virginity to this song.”

Judy coughs a little at the abrupt admission and its accompanying visual but rights herself quickly, “I lost it to Heart. Straight On.”

Suddenly Jen’s laughing, loud and unbridled. “Seriously? _Heart?_ What teenage boy listened to fucking Heart?”

Judy feels the heat rising to her cheeks. It shouldn’t feel awkward (she’s always been open about these things, sometimes to a fault), but it does. 

“Her name was Lisa,” she tries to sound casual, swaying on her feet to the beat of the music, “so… _not_ a boy.”

Jen’s forehead creases for a moment but she appears otherwise unfazed, “So you’ve always known.”

Judy doesn’t think that’s true. She hasn’t _always known_ anything. She thinks of herself as an extension of the universe: anything not forbidden is compulsory. 

It’s a universal constant, anything that _can_ happen _will_ , and as far back as she can remember Judy has allowed it. Welcomed it, really. It’s never been about outcomes, sound decision-making, or preemptive _knowing_. Things are only good or bad in hindsight, so she lets everything happen and waits for something good to stick. 

She knows Jen doesn’t think the way that she does, doesn’t really waste time on armchair philosophy, so she says, “I guess so,” and leaves it at that. 

_They come, they come to build a wall between us. We know they won’t win._

Judy sings along softly between sips of a Moscow mule, letting the taste of ginger reground her in a reality where she isn’t pinballing aimlessly through life, where she makes choices instead of falling through boxes, and Jen sways her hips, a cautious smile spreading out across the peaks of her cheeks. She looks content. Peaceful and mellow, her eyes bright and skin glowing pink under the rosy lights. 

“He broke up with me right after he threw out the condom,” Jen shakes her head, still smiling. 

Judy tries to formulate a response, really tries, but all she seems to be able to do is watch as Jen’s body flows with the music. 

There’s a unique breed of nostalgia that binds itself to bad memories, she thinks. Past crises seem comically tame in retrospect as new ones alter the precedent and she wonders if Jen feels the same way; if there’s any sentimentality attached to the person she was when minor hardships felt like the end of the world.

“Guess you didn’t have to dream it,” she says finally. 

Jen sputters on a sip of her drink and breaks into choked-off laughter, “ _Judy!_ ”

Seconds later, the man from the bar is standing in front of her, holding out a beer with a raised brow. Something about his assuredness, the smirk that says _I know what you need better than you do_ , makes her want to accept the drink only to throw it back in his face. She’s not sure when she developed the impulse to retaliate, but it sits in the back of her mind now: a faint, foreign voice whispering insistently.

Instead, she forces a saccharine grin and raises her cup, “Thanks, but I’ve already got one.”

And when Jen wraps an arm around her and squeezes lightly, scoffing, “Take a fucking hint,” in that haughty, glacial tone that’s so distinctly _Jen_ , she pretends she doesn’t feel the jolt in her stomach.

“Trade thank you for _fuck_ you once in a while,” Jen says, “Guy’s a fucking creep.”

Judy narrows her eyes, giving Jen a look that she hopes is convincingly disapproving, “Be nice.”

“Grow a pair,” Jen fires back. The liquor laces the challenge in her tone and before she can think, Judy’s turning after him, yelling, “Fuck you!” at the back of his head like it’s the only logical response to a free drink. Her voice falters on _you_ , uncertain and pitched too high; Judy’s said _fuck_ to a lot of things but she can’t remember the last time she used it like this.

Jen lets out an incredulous snort, “Baby steps. We’ll get there.”

* * *

That night, Judy can’t sleep.

“Jen?” she whispers, earning an unintelligible mumble from the half-asleep woman beside her. “What does it feel like when you get angry?”

“Shitty,” Jen groans, her voice hoarse, “Like there’s this _thing_ inside of me and I just… there’s nowhere to put it.”

Seemingly realizing that this is more than she’s ever divulged on the topic, she shakes her head, “It feels like I’m fucking angry, okay? Are you really playing psychologist at four in the morning, Judes?”

“No, it’s just lately I’ve been feeling,” Judy searches for the words, “I don’t know. Like that guy today, I um… wantedtohurthim. He didn’t even do anything, it was just the way he was looking at me.”

She says it all in one breath, stumbling over her words, and Jen turns to face her. She’s not sure how she anticipated her to react, but Jen’s smirking like she knows something Judy doesn’t and Judy figures she probably does. She thinks Jen usually knows more than she lets on in a way that’s both reassuring and completely fucking terrifying. 

“If you could do it over again, what would you do?”

“Obviously I wouldn’t hurt him! It’s not like I _want_ to, it’s just like, a stupid thought that I had. I don’t know, I probably sound insane right now.”

Jen looks lost in thought for a moment before replying, “If you were me, what would you do?”

She lifts her hand, miming offering Judy a beer and Judy laughs nervously before righting herself.

“I don’t want it,” Judy says in her best impression of an authoritative tone. 

“Oh, come on, baby,” Jen coaxes her, the smirk still plastered on her face, “You look thirsty.”

Judy takes a breath, “Fuck you.”

“Don’t be such a bitch, you know you want it —“

“I would hit you,” Judy interjects quietly, “ _Him_ , I mean. If I was you, I would hit him, I think. Would you?”

“I would,” Jen says, regarding her impassively. “So hit me.”

Judy sucks in a sharp breath, “What?”

“Hit me.”

“Fuck off, Jen. I’m not going to hit you.”

Jen grabs her wrist and brings Judy’s hand to her cheek. “Hit me,” she breathes and Judy can see the dilation of her pupils even in the dark. 

She cups Jen’s jaw in her hand and runs her thumb across her lower lip, shuddering involuntarily when Jen flicks her tongue against Judy’s thumb and pulls it between her lips. 

Jen tilts her head back, releasing Judy’s thumb with an audible pop. 

“I would have stood my ground,” she remarks, “You’re too easy to catch off-guard.” Then, as an afterthought, she adds, “You don’t want to be like me, Judy.”

Judy just stares at her, “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fucking mess?” she laughs, but there’s no mirth in her eyes, “I may as well be fucking dead. I _feel_ dead, like, seriously, how much bullshit can one person take? Common denominator and all that, it’s probably because I’m —“

Jen doesn’t have a chance to finish her sentence because, before her brain can catch up with her body, Judy’s shifting closer and tilting her head to cut her off with a kiss. It’s innocent enough, no roving hands or open mouths, but more forceful than Judy imagined she was capable of. 

Judy had always believed that the opposite of anger was love, but she doesn’t think that’s true anymore. Now, anger feels like something layered and ineffable. It takes breath in your lungs to scream, pulse pounding in your ears like a staccato refrain of _I am still here._

So maybe the opposite of anger is apathy. Maybe that’s how it feels to Jen. 

She pulls away quickly, “You’re not dead, Jen. You’re just drunk.”

“I know,” Jen responds with an unreadable look, “And we want different things.”

“What do you think I want?”

Jen laughs dryly, shaking her head, “I don’t know, Judes. Absolution?”

It lands like a punch to her gut, but Judy pretends not to feel it. 

Before she can reply, Jen speaks again, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “You already have it though. You’re _good_ , okay? You’re so good.”

She brings her lips to Judy’s forehead briefly before turning away again and Judy feels herself melt into the comforter, the rush of tenderness and validation coursing through her body white-hot and dizzying. It’s the payoff, she thinks, that keeps the fire from fizzling out. She wants Jen to say those words, _you’re good_ , until they become a part of her. When Jen says it, it almost feels like the truth.

It isn’t until she’s drifting off that Judy realizes she never asked Jen what _she_ wants. She wonders if Jen would even know the answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-d by the lovely bgaydocrimes! let me know if you guys want to see more of this mess.

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone want more of this weirdly sexual sadness? let me know!


End file.
